My own match
by Pele the Goddess
Summary: Guy Montag had a child with a woman he met after he escaped civilization. But, apon her second birthday, the government stole her. She's now sixteen, and the fire station, as well as her orphanage next door, is all she knows of life. Then she met Winna...
1. Chapter 1

I watch the books burn.

I see the vast dicionarys being eaten alive,

The motherly cookbooks becoming enfulged by fire,

The helpless childrens stories turning into dust,

The ancient volumes becomeing surrounded by light.

Last but not least, countless novels, infinate knowledge

Becoming ash, dust and embers.

Knowledge sent to the void to be completely forgotten.

Forever.

_I take such fierce joy in this_ I thought as I wiped the sweat from my face...


	2. Chapter 2

**I do not own Fahrenheit 451**

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Chapter 1

Fraya POV (point of view)

Fire alights in my eyes. As it catches on fire, though my heart is dark, destructive passion sparks inside. The fragile, leaf-like pages burn at the edges bright orange, leaving gray remains, light as a feather. With the searing heat, they flutter up as butterflies caught in a violent breeze. My eyes are locked on the flames, dancing this moment to a universal beat. I am entranced. I can't look away, but even if I could, I don't want to. The pages are just a memory, gone within seconds. The covers become enfolded in heat and light. In my palm lies the dying book. Flames kiss my fingertips, caressing my hand as a fiery Romeo, bestowing its gentle touch on a lover. Green cloth-covered cardstock crackles out of existence. The binding makes it's final plea, igniting like kerosene. A fierce pleasure, the end is coming. Gold-leafed letters, h-a-m-l-e-t, exploding in a burst, filling my vision with orange and red, blackening for eternity. A pile of grey dust in my palm.

I closed my fingers, angry at how fast it burned. I flung the remains out the window, and dusted off my hands on my jeans. I began to stare out the window, watching the leaves dance on the breeze. This is my hobby. I like to burn things. You could call me a pyromaniac, but I'm more than that. Fire is my obsession, my lifeblood. It's the only thing keeping me alive.

I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Fraya. I don't have a last name, because I don't have a mother or a father. I live in an orphanage on cherry lane. At least, I'm supposed to, legally. But I don't. I live at the fire station next door.

When I was ten I began sneaking into the fire station every day to get away from the orphanage. The people there freak me out. They're all too happy, too fake. They try to cheer everyone up, but they had always tried too hard. Besides, I can't sleep with pink walls and frilly sheets, too-cute teddy bears, and a night light 'in case I get scared'. Ick. Makes me want to throw up.

Anyways, I slept every night for two years in the unused storage room. I knew nobody used it because the dust was caked on everything about three inches thick. Well, I swept out a corner and made a bed for myself. And whenever I felt like being alone, I went there. It became a clear space to think uninterrupted. My sanctuary.

Two years I was never bothered, and no one knew where it was I went when I disappeared. Sometimes nobody would see me for days at a time, but I had to go back.

Once, I stole a whole bunch of food from the kitchen, planning to see how long I could stay away. I fell asleep that night, and found half the food gone by morning, eaten by rats. Or mice. Or both. Well I had thought _at this rate I'll have to go back tomorrow, and somebody very angry will be there to greet me. Then they'll lock me in that pink hell-hole of a room, and threaten to not feed me supper._ I was twelve at the time, and though I wasn't afraid of starvation, I was terrified of being alone in that horrible room. So I decided to enjoy what alone time I could get right now. I was just drifting off to sleep when BAM! Someone slammed open the door.

" We haven't opened that damned door in years," a male voice sounded from the threshold. I herd him stumble and curse. "Where the hell is that light switch?" The room was illuminated, and I froze, like a deer in the headlights. _I've been caught. They won't let me stay here anymore_ I had thought as my heart beat at lightening speed. "Hello there" the man said gently. "I'm the fire-chief here, but you can call me Uncle Mo. What's your name?" I had just stared at him. And what I saw surprised me. With a foul mouth and such strength, I thought he was a weather beaten old sea dog. But he just turned out to be a kindly older man with laugh lines. "Well honey," he continued, knowing I wouldn't reply, "why don't you come upstairs and have something to eat. It's brighter up there," he looked around, making a face at the dust. "It's a lot cleaner, too. Besides, I want you to meet the boys".

That day he took me in. I told him my story, and he told me his. He's an old widower who took up fire-starting after his wife died. He doesn't have kids, but he had always wanted some. Acting on his parenting instinct, he had given me my own room, and fed me. He pretty much adopted me, an all the boys at the station adore me. I' like the little sister they've always wanted . But legally I was still in the care of the orphanage.

The Matron of the Cherry Street Orphanage, Mistress Mujhort, hates me. I call her Miss Mugwort. She never cared that I disappeared for days. She didn't give a flying rat's ass about me. She probably doesn't even remember me anymore. But I don't care. She's nothing to me, but an annoyance. And she used to look at me as if I was a disease. In fact, she's probably glad I'm gone. Ever since I burned a hole through the roof when I was three, she has treated me like dirt. I had set my room on fire while trying to burn my blanket with a single match. The miser hadn't cared whether I lived or died. She screeched about her 'precious roof', an grumbled for days about how much it would cost to fix. Not once did she ask if I was ok. That was my earliest memory…

I've been intrigued with fire ever since I was very small. I have burned so many things, but I myself have never been burned. For some reason, no matter what I do, I can't burn. I've tried, oh, believe me, I've tried. But my skin just doesn't burn. One time I burned off half my hair, but when I touched my head full of flames, my skin didn't get burned at all. Fire doesn't even hurt me. It's hot, very hot, but not painful.

Lost in my thoughts, I remembered where I was. The memories flashing behind my eyes were replaced by the beautiful autumn leaves playing in the wind. Fall is my favorite season, with all the fire-colored foliage scattered in the trees, drifting down to pile in the streets. I started down stairs to the kitchen.

"Uncle Mo!" I said excitedly, bumping into him.

"Fraid-y Cat!" he greeted me with a hug, using my favorite nick-name. The day they found me, after they found out I was from the orphanage, the first thing I had squeaked out was "please don't make me go back!! They're all so scary!" Uncle Mo had replied " Don't worry Fraid-y Cat. You can stay here." So the name stuck.

He squinted at me, then gently grabbed my chin and tilted my head upwards. He frowned, looking intently just above my eyes. " You singed your eyebrows again!" He released me, chuckling. "This is what? The fourth time this month?"

"Fifth," I replied as I danced away, giggling.

He shook his head, saying, "You love fire more than I do. And that's saying a lot!"

"I sure do."

I walked into the kitchen, only to come face to face with…

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**Note from the author: This is my first fan fiction, and I guess I'm a bit nervous about it. Also, yes, I realize this is technically chapter two, but I wanted to fit in a prolouge. So chapter two is technically chapter one. Sorry for any inconvinence or confusion. I would love any and all constructive criticism!!! Please tell me what you think about it!!!!!!!!!! **

**Thanks,**

**Pele the Goddess**


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